Ruins of a Palace Garden
by Celtic Knot
Summary: A prologue to Shakespeare's Hamlet in modern prose. Ophelia tries to comfort Hamlet, who is distraught over the death of his father and his mother's hast remarriage, but things don't quite go as she'd planned. Rated for mild language and adult themes.


**Ruins of a Palace Garden**

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark – by birth, rightful _king _of Denmark – stood staring at the bench in the palace garden upon which his father had died. He trembled alternately with grief and rage: grief for the loss of his beloved father, and rage at his mother's impending remarriage. To his uncle, no less!

Upon his marriage to Queen Gertrude, Claudius would usurp Hamlet's throne – bit this was not what so galled the young prince. Only two short months had passed since the death of the elder Hamlet, the king. In the space of a mere _two months, _the woman the younger Hamlet had always adored as a loving mother had gone from virtuous queen to grieving widow to… to… to incestuous whore!

Hamlet felt sick at the thought. He wanted to just lie down and die. Fate had unleashed her worst deviltry upon him, and he was surrounded by shrieking demons.

A sound behind him – a rustle of skirts, a woman's delicate footstep – made him turn. There stood the one respite from his tortured, the angel sent to deliver him from this hell in which he was trapped, the indescribably lovely Ophelia. Hamlet loved Ophelia desperately, and courted her ardently. Though her responses had been lukewarm for fear of her father (she called it respect, but Hamlet knew it was fear), he had intended to propose to her… until his life had come crashing down around him.

The two simply stared at each other for a long moment. Though usually the stronger-willed, Hamlet was the first to look away. Ophelia's eyes had stared into his soul with a nurturing compassion that made him want to fall on his knees and weep.

It was she who spoke first. "Yours is the only sad face in Denmark, my lord," she said gently. "The royal wedding is cause for great celebration."

Hamlet turned his back and stood like a statue for a moment, then whirled around to face her again, his black cloak flying out from him like the wails of the damned. "Celebration? Are you as blind as the rest of this forsaken kingdom?" he demanded incredulously. "Can't you see what that vile adulterer, that crooked usurper of my father's throne, has done to my mother…?" He trailed off, too choked with emotion to continue.

Ophelia frowned, uncomprehending but still concerned. "I have not seen the queen so happy in many weeks."

"She is marrying my father's brother!" Hamlet exploded. "Am I the only one whose stomach turns at the thought? Am I the only one who sees a marriage tainted with grievous sin? Am I the only one who sees God frowning on this, this benighted union? She is my_ mother, _Ophelia! As she loved me, cared for me, and protected me as a child, now I who love her must care for and protect her against the wiles of my scheming uncle. Nothing good will come of this wedding!"

Ophelia was silent for a moment, not sure of what to say. Finally, she whispered, "What are you going to do?" She braced herself for a fiery, impassioned description of some wild plot…

…but none came. To Ophelia's surprise, Hamlet merely bowed his head, tears spilling at last down his face, and moaned in agony, "I don't know, Ophelia. God help me, I don't know."

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All at once, Ophelia saw standing before her not the sovereign prince of Denmark, but simply a young man in desperate need, a young man who loved her and whose affections she was forbidden only by her father to return. It broke her heart to see him like this.

Oh, how she loved him! Her body and soul ached with it.

With that thought, she threw her father's strict edicts to the four winds. Hamlet _needed _her.

Tentatively, unsure of how he would react, she reached out and took his hands in hers. Emboldened when he did not resist, she led him to a nearby bench and pulled him down to sit beside her. Ophelia held him as a mother would a frightened child, with his head pillowed on her breast, and let him weep.

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Flinging all pretense of dignity aside, Hamlet allowed his anger, his grief, his terror to pour forth. He trusted Ophelia more than any other, even Horatio. He _needed _her… he realized as his sobbing subsided that he could not live without her.

The gentle beating of her heart soothed his nerves and gave him courage. Taking a deep breath, he stood up clasping Ophelia's hands as she jumped to her feet. "Ophelia," he began softly, "I cannot begin to thank you for what you've done for me. And I don't just mean here, now, I mean… I… What I'm trying to say is…" He mentally cursed his inarticulateness. "Without you, life means nothing to me. You are so beautiful, generous, kind… the world has never seen, and will never see again, such a goddess among women as you." He went down on one knee and gazed up at her, beseeching. "I would be honored… if you would marry me, Ophelia."

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Ophelia gasped, stunned, and then it was her turn to cry. She couldn't stand to hurt him any more, but she had no choice. She tried to break it to him gently. "The honor would be mine–" she wished she could take the words back as the prince's eloquent eyes lit up with hope– "but my father won't have it. I'm so sorry, Hamlet, but I can't!" The last words came out in a rush and a flood of tears, and Ophelia fled the garden so she wouldn't have to see his face.

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Hamlet was left kneeling on the ground, staring at the spot where Ophelia had stood, his hopes dashed, his dreams shattered.


End file.
